A sentence spoken by someone who doesn't care [Sir Henry Rawlinson, actually], and that's how I feel. Especially today, on my 54th birthday, which, as I'm working tonight, will be spent in bed, asleep. In the past, this would have really bothered me, but this year... it feels different, in a kind of: 'Yeah, another year gone - so what' way. I have been out, on two of the best weather days for a long while, and had fun - which is something I'm really, really crap at. My idea of fun is a big book to read where there are no people, or an art gallery or museum early in the day, when there are few people about, or sitting in the middle of nowhere. On my own. Jean-Paul Sartre was correct in his assertion that: ''Hell is other people.'' But I went to the coast, and walked on the beach, and ate fish and chips, and strolled on the pier. Enjoyed an airshow the second day, again at the coast, and it was wonderful. Yes, there were indeed lots of other people, but they did their thing, and I did mine. Little, ephemeral things like birthdays really don't matter after a certain time - as long as somebody remembers to send me a rude card [and they always do], then I'll be happy.
